Invisible Scars
by Masa-chan1314
Summary: Roy Mustang's promotion is postponed after he is diagnosed with PTSD. He is constantly haunted by memories of his time during the Ishvalan Civil War, but fortunately for him, Riza Hawkeye might be the therapist he needs.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Greetings everyone! I started a new story on a subject that really piqued my interest! I have a habit of leaving stories unfinished, but I still have my latest fic _The Last of Us: Attack on Titan_ out, and I'm planning to get to that as well some time during winter break (hopefully) since I'm home for the holidays! This is a Roy x Riza fic on PTSD, and note that I am NOT an expert on anything medical. Lastly, I DO NOT OWN FULLMETAL ALCHEMIST OR ANYTHING OF THE SORT.**

* * *

><p><em>The crack of bullets resonated in the air as rifles fired endlessly throughout the day. Men clad in blue marched into the desert country of Ishval with rifles that had to be continuously reloaded. Those men - emotionless and robotic - were chess pieces on a black and white board. They trekked through the checkered territory under close supervision of only one side of the board; and no matter how many times they reloaded their battle scarred rifles, each piece had only one target. When they looked at the women fleeing with their children at the sound of gunshots; when they looked at the men running towards them with knives and ammunition; the goats, cattle and and camels skittering into the distance - they paid no heed to what those Ishvalans did or who they were at heart.<em>

_ They were all targets._

_ The Ishvalans needed to be purged - an executive order from the Fuhrer himself._

_ In a village square somewhere near the center of the Ishval, a squad of Amestrian soldiers charged through the streets. Ishvalan rebels shot at the soldiers with heavy ammunition, easily taking cover behind the ledges of rooftops and inside houses. The rebels shot at the squad strategically, forcing them to disperse and hide inside other abandoned houses. The rebels followed each soldier's beeline carefully, pinpointing where each one could have been hiding and immediately released shells into windows and flesh._

_ Barrages of bullets came from different corners of the buildings making trekking through the open streets practically impossible. Two soldiers from the squad hid together in a corner near a broken window right next to the blasted street. One of them had taken a bullet in the leg while the other tried desperately to make communications with his radio. They could hear the frenzied natives loom closer towards them as they tried to pull themselves together._

_ "In here!" one of the rebels blatantly cried out._

_ "Are you sure?" another asked in his Ishvalan dialect._

_ The wounded soldier looked towards his comrade with fear. His voice trembled as he murmured, "They're coming…!"_

_ "I know, I know!" the other growled as his fingers weaved through the buttons of the radio. He kept the phone glued to his head, frantically dialing in digits to establish a connection, but all he could hear was static._

_ The rebels sounded even closer as their voices began to echo through the window. The wounded soldier pulled out his bloodied hand gun whilst covering his bleeding leg._

_ "They never said there'd be this many…! Hurry up and call them!"_

_ "Don't you think I'm trying?!"_

_ The static simply meshed with the natives' angry chatter that crept closer and closer._

_ "Where the hell is the connection?!" he grunted._

_ Suddenly, the static cleared out._

_ "I've got it!"_

_ Tipped off by his exclamation, the rebels rushed towards the building, reloading and cocking their rifles. They blindly began firing through the broken window and through the weak wooden door a few feet next to it, hoping to hit one of the soldiers hiding in the corner._

_ "M-Major! We're taking heavy fire, sir! There's too many of them! We…! _We need help_!"_

_ Then, in an instant, part of the building exploded and caught on fire. There was a gaping hole in the side of the house, its perimeter just barely reaching the wounded soldier's leg but completely destroying the wooden door. The two looked towards the sunlight that was coming through the hole, and there lay two burned Ishvalan bodies whose blood painted the dirt floor crimson._

_ The two sighed in relief - reinforcements were in their favor. They heard _him_ coming - the snaps that echoed faintly throughout the ruined household were the clear give away. Simply knowing that it was him dealing with the Ishvalans in their place was an even greater relief to them._

_ A man in a white, hooded cloak approached the remaining rebels at the scene. He too bore the same blue uniform. The rebels looked at him with pure hatred and aimed their weapons at his head. He glared at them with dark eyes and held out his gloved hand. Quickly, he snapped his fingers, and a violent burst of flames emerged from thin air, devouring the rebels before him. He heard their blood-curdling screams as they were reduced to ashes. Their weapons exploded within the fire as the metal framework briskly melted away. When the fire finally cleared, what was left of those Ishvalan rebels was all burnt to a crisp across the dirt._

_ "Major Mustang!" the soldiers cheered._

_ The cloaked man quickly walked towards them, scanning the area briefly whilst being careful not to enter any rifle sights of hidden rebels._

_ "Are you two okay?" he asked as he crouched beside the window._

_ "Yes, sir!" The two nodded._

_ "You're injured," the major pointed out._

_ "I was shot in the leg, but that's all sir," the wounded man said. "I think I can still fight though-"_

_ "No, both of you stay down. You don't need to move for now."_

_ "A-Are you fighting them by yourself?"_

_ "Yes."_

_ The two soldiers held their breath in astonishment._

_ "I'm a state alchemist. I can handle them myself. Get the dirt wet and use it to pack your bullet wound in."_

_ "Yes sir." The soldier scooped a small handful of dry dirt from the ground and spit into it. He then pressed it into the hole in his thigh, groaning from the sharp pain._

_ "Pack it tight. This is what happens when your corpsman is isolated from the rest of the squad." Mustang peeked his head out the window and hastily sank back down. "Where are the remaining squad members?" he barked._

_ "We're not sure. The rebel forces here caused us to split up the formation. After that happened, we found out there's more of these rebels than we originally antici-"_

_ A barrage of bullets heavily attacked the building once more. The three stayed as low towards the ground as possible, just barely dodging the incoming bullets that raced through the open window._

_ "How are you going to fight them with all their bullets?!" the wounded asked frantically._

_ "Forget about the bullets!" Mustang commanded. "I'm going to subdue them! You two stay put!" His voice almost drowned out from the rifles' clamor, but the soldiers listened intently. "Establish communications with your squad and get them to rendezvous at this spot, is that understood!"_

_ "Yes, sir!"_

_ The white-cloaked man snuck past the window and towards the massive hole in the wall. As soon as he heard the shots begin to slow, he breathed in deep. _I'm sorry..._ and with a swift leap to the other side of the street, he snapped his fingers at the building overlooking him, releasing a red spark from his gloved hand. The fire appeared instantaneously and furiously engulfed the rooftop. The raging flames forced out dreadful screams from the hidden Ishvalans. Desperate to fan the flames away, they fell off the rooftop but continued to burn on the ground; and as they melted and sizzled, the major stood emotionless with the heat of the flames against his own skin. The mixture of desert heat and fire were not new to him, but coming from inside the fire was a noise he had never heard before. He watched the smoke rise into the air and heard a faint gurgling noise -_

_ as if one of the bodies was trying to cry._

_ There was a whisper: _Please stop this…_ And something in his chest began to ache. _Please...

_ Fighting the urge to steal even the smallest glimpse of the corpses, he grit his teeth and made haste to his fellow comrades. After all, there was work that needed to be done._

_ But as he hurried past the charred bodies that lay beside the burning building, he heard a feminine yelp behind him. He stopped and turned with his hand in front of him ready to start another fire, but he froze and saw a woman rushing towards one of the bodies._

_ "My husband!" she cried out._

_ And at that moment, he finally caught a glimpse of the corpse's mutilated face. He was taken aback._

No… _A tremor surged through him. _Why…? Why did I look...?

_ It was a wretched sight._

_ The woman fell to her knees and cradled one of the bodies into her arms as tears streamed down her dirty face. She held the blackened body tight, blocking out the sounds of gunshots and fire in the war-torn street she scuttled in. Hearing her sobs, the major lowered his hand and continued to watch the woman cry with the charred body in her arms. She rocked the body back and forth like a child as tears fell onto the corpse's melted cheeks; and each time she moved, a crunching sound was made from the corpse's burnt skin._

_ "__**My husband!**__" she screamed into the air._

_ He was frozen - unwilling to move from the sight._

Why…? _His body was shaking. _Why?!

_ "__**Mustang!**__"_

He shot up from his bed, gasping for air. Sweat beaded down his temples, and he was trembling all over. His heart pounded violently against his chest, choking him. His eyes were wide open, staring at his blanket-covered lap.

Everything was so different - the burning rubble was gone, and the heat was no longer palpable; but the woman's sorrowful screams still echoed, and the smell of burning flesh still filled his nose. He bowed his head and covered his face as he heard her once more.

"S-Stop your screaming…!" His hands tightened into fists.

"Roy Mustang!" a voice beside him called out.

"What?!" He snapped his head to the left and stared for a moment, breathless.

"Roy?" A uniformed man spoke to him. "Roy are you alright?"

Mustang took in several deep breaths and recollected himself. His heart began to relax, and his shaking slowly ceased.

The woman was gone, and the scent of hospital linen caught his attention.

"Where am I…?" he asked.

"The medical center."

He stared into his lap again. "Oh…" His throat was dry from the dream.

"That must have been quite the dream you had there, major." The uniformed man spoke softly, hearing the affliction from his comrade.

"Why am I here, Hughes?" Mustang asked the man sitting beside him.

"You had another one of those spells again."

"Spells?"

"We were just sitting in my office a couple hours ago talking, and then all of a sudden, you start freaking out."

"…Freaking out?"

"You were freaking out about hearing gunshots or explosions or something. You start complaining about how your chest started to hurt, and then you just downright passed out in front of me!" The man adjusted his glasses and leaned towards the major with wrinkled brows. "Do you understand how freaked out _I _was?! You were out for a while!"

The major pursed his lips. "…What were we even talking about?"

Hughes raised a brow. "You don't remember? I was just telling you how you were going to be promoted to Lieutenant Colonel."

"Which is something we need to discuss," another voice was present in the room. The two men turned their heads towards the door on the other side of the room. There stood a doctor with a stethoscope tucked inside his coat pocket, holding a clipboard heavy with paperwork.

"Good evening, doctor," Hughes greeted with a big smile.

"Good evening to you as well, gentlemen," the doctor shut the door quietly. He set the clipboard aside on the countertop of the sink and began washing his hands. "How are you feeling, major?"

Mustang cleared his throat. "A bit flustered, actually."

The doctor wiped his hands dry and chuckled. "I bet. You were tossing and turning quite a bit in bed there, major."

"What's the verdict, doc?" Hughes sank back into his chair.

"Well, we ran some tests, and I've got some good news and some bad news."

"Bad news first," demanded Mustang.

The doctor's lips curved into a slight frown. "I think you mean good news first."

"What are you talking about?"

The doctor spoke as he approached Mustang's bedside, "The good news is that you're in good physical shape. Vitals are normal - all that good stuff. To top it off, you're going to be promoted to Lieutenant Colonel in due time."

"And the bad news?"

The doctor took a seat beside him and exhaled slowly. "Your promotion needs to be postponed. Major Roy Mustang, you have PTSD."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Please remember that I am not a medical professional... the info I have on PTSD in this fic was google-searched. Oh, and I DO NOT OWN ****_FULLMETAL ALCHEMIST._**

* * *

><p>"Excuse me?" Mustang scoffed. The doctor was quiet.<p>

Mustang lashed his eyes towards Hughes who was looking down at his boots. His face was solemn, eyes tired and lips tight. He was at a loss for words and could only twiddle his thumbs at his lap.

Annoyed at the silence in the room, Mustang grit his teeth and growled at Hughes, "What the hell is going on, Hughes?!"

"You heard the doctor," Hughes said plainly. He straightened himself in his seat. "Major Mustang, you have post-traumatic stress disorder."

"And what does that have to do with my promotion?!" The raven haired man clenched the blanket at his waist.

Hughes exhaled through his nose and continued, "Because you have PTSD, your leadership skills and your rational thinking are jeopardized. We can't having you leading from the front right next to a Colonel like that. Even as a State Alchemist your position is unstable. Once the higher ups hear about this, they might force you to go on leave for a while."

"Go on leave?" The man scowled. Mustang always was a hard worker, constantly out to impress his comrades and the women outside the battlefield; but most of all, he knew he was making a difference in the small world he lived in.

"If I may interject," the doctor cleared his throat, "all is not lost, you know." Mustang and Hughes turned to the doctor who began flipping through his notes on his clipboard. "While it is confirmed that you do show signs of PTSD: easily irritated, flashbacks, nightmares - there is still an opportunity for you to seek treatment."

"What, are you going to shove me into a mental hospital?"

"No, not that kind of treatment," the doctor chuckled. "More like therapy sessions."

"And what would these sessions consist of, doctor?" Hughes raised a brow.

"Well I personally won't be performing the treatment - someone else will. But the sessions will be comprised of different methods of treatment. There's cognitive therapy, exposure therapy - plenty of options, major."

Mustang stared off into the corner of his view, lips pursed from the frustration welling up inside of him. Gently, Hughes placed a hand on Mustang's shoulder, being careful not to incite any agitation from the flustered major. The lens of his glasses rose as his cheeks bunched at the sides from his huge, white smile.

"I'm sure you will be back to normal just as soon as all the sessions are over. Isn't that right, doc?"

"Oh, it's a fact, sir," the doctor smiled. "The treatments used in those sessions have been relied on for years, and they work 99.9 percent of the time."

"But what happens to the other 0.01 percent," Mustang asked bluntly.

The doctor hesitated. "Well, for starters, that is an _incredibly_ small number of PTSD patients. What usually happens to them is… _prolonged_ therapy sessions."

Mustang shot a soft glare at the doctor. "You don't sound so sure."

"At any rate, the treatments should work, and I can send in a referral to one of the therapists here in the medical center if you do choose to go through with the treatments which I highly encourage you to do."

Hughes nudged his elbow into Mustang's arm, prompting him to answer. The major eyed his comrade with a slight grimace and noticed his deeply rooted concern painted onto his face. Mustang's scowl slowly faded.

He inhaled sharply and grumbled to the doctor, "As much as I hate being on leave, I'll take up that offer on the treatment."

"Outstanding news, sir," the doctor grinned. "I'll send in the referral after I take a quick look at your vitals."

The doctor reached for his stethoscope and snaked the diaphragm underneath Mustang's hospital gown and pressed against his chest. He then added, "Oh, and if it's also okay with you, I'd like to keep you here for an extra night so that we can keep a closer eye on your sleep patterns. Those nightmares can do quite a number on you, you know."

"Just do whatever you can to get me back to normal again," Mustang exhaled deeply.

After jotting down various numbers onto his clipboard, the doctor said his goodbyes and quietly left the room. Hughes continued to sit in his stiff chair beside his comrade, tapping his foot against the tile floor to keep the bitter silence away. He watched Mustang sink into his bed with his arms folded behind his head, staring at the plain white ceiling above them.

Abruptly, Hughes stopped his tapping and leaned forward again. "Your goal is to become Fuhrer, isn't it?"

Mustang remained silent.

"If you truly want to fulfill that goal, you need to be at the top of your game."

Still no response.

"Nobody said the journey to the top would mean you would always have the best choices ready in your hand. Sometimes, the worst choices are the best choices. Remove yourself for a while. I've got your back. Don't worry."

The major took a deep breath and turned to his side. "Thanks, Hughes."

Nodding, he stood and straightened his uniform, heading for the door. "Have a good night there, major."

Mustang simply scoffed in reply.

_We can only hope, with me._

* * *

><p><em>"<em>_Alright, soldiers," Captain Hughes said aloud to the squad of blue in front of him. "The objective of this mission is to search for and destroy the pub at which one of the rebel leaders is based in."_

_He slid a crinkled photograph of a bald, dark skinned man with a black tattoo on his cheek. It was hard to tell how tall he was or how built he could have been simply based on the fact that the only photograph the Amestrians had of him was a head shot. The soldiers standing in front of the captain gathered closer to the rickety desk, analyzing the face in the wrinkled piece of paper._

_"__None of his followers know his name," the captain continued. "They only know his face and who he hangs out with. That's how much of an authority figure he is to them. If you want a positive ID, he'll have a tattoo on his cheek and really shiny head."_

_"__Hmph, maybe he'd have grown a hair or two by the time we see him," Major Mustang sneered amidst the group. The soldiers near him grinned._

_"__The objective is the base, not necessarily the person. But if you _do_ manage to see him while en route to his base, you need to find the perfect opportunity - and fast - to lay this guy out. Which is why we're sending in one our top snipers with the rest of the squad."_

_Hughes motioned the squad towards a young, short-haired woman in a hooded cloak. She quickly stood at attention from her seat and saluted the raven-haired major._

_"__Sergeant Major Riza Hawkeye, reporting for duty sir."_

_The major returned her salute with a chortle. "I know you, Sergeant Major."_

_Hughes chimed in, "Mustang, I trust that you and your squad will be able to pull this off quickly and in a flashy manner. But just a quick reminder of the rules of engagement: the rules say deadly force is authorized, and if you do come under attack, use the appropriate-"_

_"__The appropriate force as necessary to remove the threat. We're all aware, Hughes."_

_Hughes simply nodded. "Alright then."_

* * *

><p><em>While en route towards the western region of Ishval, Mustang and his squad - two soldiers and the notorious sniper Riza Hawkeye - trailed behind rubble and inside abandoned buildings. Their boots crunched against dried pebbles dragged through the hot Ishvalan sand. At high noon, the sun was beaming down at them at 90 degrees Fahrenheit, gradually sapping the squad of their strength. Sensing their decline, Mustang halted his squad and sought refuge behind a large slice of cement rubble. As the squad scurried behind the cement, Sergeant Major Hawkeye made a slow sweep of the area with her rifle.<em>

_"__All clear, sir," she murmured to the major, being careful not to suddenly sound off any attention from nearby._

_"__Good work there, Miss Hawkeye," he grinned flirtatiously as he and the rest of the squad took a seat on the sandy surface._

_"__It's Sergeant Major Hawkeye, sir," she said plainly._

_"__Yeah, I know," he took a sip from his canister. He frowned at the warmed taste of the water but nonetheless quenched his thirst._

_The shortest soldier of the squad unraveled a wrinkled map of the area and scooted himself closer to the major. He pointed at a building encompassed with a pencilled red circle. "The base is due north of where we are right now, and it should take us around an hour to get there. What's the plan from here, sir?"_

_Mustang took another sip from his canister. "We rest up for another couple of minutes and we hit the road again. We set up communications with our base when we hit this outpost."_

_He pointed at a dark spot on the map near the red circle that was drawn on._

_"__We're bound to come in contact with some rebels, so your task is to watch my back while I deal with their base, is that understood?"_

_"__Yes, sir," the squad chanted._

_Suddenly, footsteps began to sound nearby. The squad halted their movements and listened in to the noise. It was too far to know distinctly where the footsteps were coming from. Quickly, the soldiers readied their rifles and knelt into position, each planning to protect their revered Major Mustang. Even Sergeant Major Hawkeye was ready to fend off insurgents from the major._

_Mustang closed his eyes, focusing on the sound. His thumb and middle finger pressed together, ready to spark a fire in any direction he saw fit._

_"__There are three men at your four o'clock sir," Riza whispered whilst peering into her scope._

_Mustang ambled silently beside her._

_"__They're not too far. At the rate and direction they're going, we'll come into contact with them in about two minutes."_

_He squinted his eyes and saw three Ishvalan men approaching. They were seemingly unarmed, trudging through the sand near rubble for reasons unknown. Mustang knew he had to handle them carefully, but more importantly, quietly._

_"__Your orders, sir?" the corpsman responded behind his rifle, protecting the left flank._

_Suddenly, the crack of rifles filled the air as a bullet shot through Mustang's shoulder._

He gasped as his hand reached for his left shoulder, feeling a dull pain shoot through his skin. He could hear the bullet resonate through the desert sky and feel it drive through his flesh. He groaned in pain as he stared at hospital ceiling, and the pain quickly faded away. He drew several panicked breaths, before he felt a soft hand on his.

He turned his head to the side and saw the same short-haired woman from his dream.

"Sergeant Major," he panted.

She shook her head. "It's _Warrant Officer _Hawkeye now, sir."

"Geez," he covered his face, trembling slightly as the sound of bullets continued to echo in his mind.

She watched him try to control his breathing, feeling his tremors underneath her warm palm. Her face was sullen from the state her fellow officer was in, her heart sinking into sadness. Never did she see the day that he would turn out like this - she always thought it would be her trembling after coming home from the war, after all she's done; after who she had shot; after who she had killed.

Deep inside, she wanted to be in his place - for the sake of her fellow comrade in arms.

"What are you feeling, sir?" she asked quietly.

He took a moment to respond. His voice was raspy. "I… hear the bullet… I still hear it."

She listened to him, tightening her warm grip on his hand.

"That day… we were sent to find the pub… I still hear the bullet going through me. I hear it. I hear it."

She held her breath, hesitant to reply. "…There's nothing there, sir."

He remained quiet.

"It's gone," she said, waiting for a response.

The room was silent; all they could hear was his breathing. After staring at the ceiling for what seemed like minutes, his hand finally relaxed at his shoulder, and his trembling ceased. He closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh, sinking into the mattress.

He then opened his mouth, wanting to speak:

"It's… gone."


End file.
